The Masters' Chronicles 005- The Witchman of Undvik
by Fainmaca
Summary: A Witcher has come to Dillingen, sending rumours and tall tales spreading through the populace. Just what does this Jaeger of the School of the Bear want? Based on characters and events from the first International edition of the Witcher School LARP in Poland.
1. Chapter 1

The market square of Dillingen bustled with activity, hundreds of merchants, townsfolk and beggars all going about their daily business. Fishmongers hacked up their wares, while barkers sang of the quality of their goods. Countless deals were brokered for silks, spices and dried meats, vast sums of coin passing through just as many hands. Arguments would break out here and there, displays of power between business partners that would quickly resolve in favour of one party or the other. Through it all the Yaruga, the broad river that marked the border between Cintra and Brugge, flowed sluggishly, almost at the end of its course, its estuary and the open sea only a few leagues west.

Berva wandered through the crowd, making her way to the riverside. Under her arm, a basket brimmed with clothing, grubby from use. She approached a small knot of women waiting by the docksides, washerwomen. A quickly whispered conversation and a few coins passed between them, before the young woman turned to face the crowd.

She was young, just out of her teens. A tangled mess of greasy black hair framed her jawline, while her skin was pale, freckles adorning her small, rounded nose. She dusted down her simple brown smock, hazel eyes taking in her surroundings.

It was a rare occasion when the maiden had time to herself. The demands of her work at the Kingfisher often filled her entire day. Now, with nothing to do but wait for the washer-women to finish their work, she had a few moments. Following her whim, she strolled into the throng, curious to see what could be seen.

She clutched hold of her satchel, a small canvas bag that held her few personal possessions. The bag was embroidered with the pattern of two golden roses, entwined with one another. It was her most valued belonging, a gift from her mother, before the plague had taken her village.

She quickly banished the memory, instead focusing on the market. She walked by a stall sporting dozens of bolts of cloth in an array of vibrant colours. She browsed the wares, fingertips brushing at the exotic fabrics in wonder.

"Did you hear? Baron Veremen hired a Witchman."

Berva turned at the comments, spotting two older women, aged peasants in simple garb leaning over a stewing pot of meaty broth, talking with one another. They doled out small bowls to passers-by, small copper coins their payment as they continued to add tom the soup. Berva strayed closer as the pair continued to gossip.

"I 'eard that 'e were one o' those raiders from Skellige." One woman muttered. "'Tis said that they're half bear, half man, an' filled with a wicked thirst fer gold an' women."

"I 'eard tell 'e was responsible fer that fire that burned down Boggevrieg, up in the Pontar Valley." Her friend answered. "Th' Ealdorman refused to pay 'im for 'is services, an' so he butchered the whole village."

"Nay, nay!" The first woman dismissed. "'Twas another that done that. The Pyromaniac o' the Pontar, Vester o' Oxenfurt! This un be a different Witchman."

"Ach, what's it matter? All them freaks're the same. Monsters, inside an' out!" She spat, a gobbet of phlegm landing wetly in the mud at her feet.

"Aye, yer right there. Did ye hear about the girl that one of 'em snatched from the Duke's chambers in Rozrog? Silent as a whisper, 'e was. Took the girl with nary a whimper. By the time the Duke's men found her, the beasts had turned her into one o' them, through their dark rituals."]

"I 'eard that the Witchers drink blood 'n' eat the flesh o' children, when the fancy takes 'em." The second woman sniffed dismissively. "They're nowt but beasts that walk on two legs. A pox on the lot of 'em!"

Berva found herself transfixed by the conversation, images leaping unbidden into her head. She'd heard many a tale of the legendary monster hunters, some good, some just as dark as those the two women described. A twinge of fear plucked at her breast. If one of those infamous monster hunters was here, in Dillingen, then there must have been some frightful beast that needed dealing with. She couldn't imagine any other reason that the city's council would allow the frightful creature within the city's walls. Instinctively, the young woman clutched at her satchel, anxiety building in her mind.

"You looking for a bowl, dearie?" The old woman's voice cut through her thoughts, bringing her back to reality. She looked around to see the woman offer her a ladle of the rich-smelling concoction. Stammering an apology, Berva politely refused, turning to walk away.

And stumbled straight into what felt like a brick wall. The young girl let out a gasp of surprise as she tumbled backwards, landing on the grimy cobblestones with a thump. Disoriented, she looked up at what she had run into, hazy eyes slowly focusing to reveal a sight that made her heart leap into her throat.

A mountain of a man stood before her, his huge, muscular frame blocking out most of the sky. Easily over seven feet in height, his shoulders were broad. Thick leather covered his chest, marked and scratched from many a battle. A black gambeson could be seen under the leather chestpiece, the long garment reaching down to his knees while the sleeves covered his arms. Under that, a simple green shirt, only the slightest part of its collar visible, and a small portion of the lower hem visible under his gambeson. Heavy leather bracers adorned his wrists, the buckles of their straps glistening in the daylight. A pair of smooth steel pauldrons was strapped to his shoulders, their many plates beaten by years of use, long having lost their polished sheen to the rigours of combat. The hilts of two swords could be seen protruding over his shoulder, their grips bound tightly in leather, their pommels shiny and smooth from repeated use. Black fur, some unsuspecting woodland creature, no doubt. formed his collar, while a myriad straps criss-crossed his chest, holding various pieces of equipment in place, from hunting knives to a coin purse. Around his neck, a silver medallion with the visage of a snarling bear dangled, its eyes gleaming blue like sapphires.

The towering beast of a man looked down at Berva with yellow eyes, their slitted pupils narrow in the daylight. The fearsome stare filled her with dread, communicating an animalistic ferocity she had never seen before. His hair was shorn close to the sides of his head, while a small braid adorned his crown in the traditional Skelligan style. His beard was short, neatly maintained, in contrast to his rugged, bestial build. Tightly shut lips formed a straight line across his features, neither scowling nor smiling. he stared down at the woman, motionless for a moment. Not a sound escaped from him.

Berva felt a chilling cold grip her. It was him. The Witchman. He was every bit as terrifying as the women had said. The young maiden felt her stomach drop as she scrabbled back on the cobblestones, fingers leaving shallow troughs in the dirt of the street.

"I- I- I'm sorry!" She stammered.

The giant merely continued to stare at her, his fiery eyes blazing with inscrutable thoughts. Berva could sense nothing from them. No emotion of any kind. No humanity.

One booted foot rose, then dropped down on cobblestone with dreadful weight. Berva imagined that she could feel the powerful tread shiver through the ground, as though the street itself were afraid of the titanic monster hunter. She pushed herself back further, struggling to get her feet under herself.

"I didn't... I didn't mean to..." She couldn't look away from those amber eyes, that inhuman stare.

Panic seized her throat as the giant stepped forward again, raising a hand. His knees began to bend as he reached down towards her, hand outstretched. She felt the terror rise. This was it. He was going to snatch her away, just like the stories she'd heard as a child. Fear and urgency seized her.

"Get away from me!" She cried as she scrambled to her feet.

With all the effort she could muster, Berva turned away from that monstrous stare, darting off into the crowd with frenzied urgency. She bumped into several folks, eliciting shouts of indignation and anger, but she cared not. All she could think about was getting away from those blazing eyes.

She heard some kind of commotion behind her, some voice shouting, but she didn't stay to listen. She needed to get away, before the Witchman caught her. She bulled her way through the crowd until, finally, she emerged on the other side, darting down an alleyway to vanish from view.

The young woman didn't stop for a few streets, until at last the hubbub of the market square had finally faded behind her. Once she felt safe at last, the girl turned one last corner, then leaned against a wall, panting as she struggled to catch her breath. She leaned back, feeling the chill of the bricks against her back. After a moment or two, the girl finally relaxed. She'd escaped. The Witchman would not take her this day.

Her relief was only short-lived, however, when she turned to look to her hip, thinking to get a kerchief from her satchel to wipe some of the dirt from her clothes. Her heart stopped when she spotted the empty spot where her prized bag had once sat. Frantically, she searched the ground around her, but the bag was nowhere to be seen.

She must have dropped it when she fell, she concluded. Perhaps the strap had snapped when she hit the ground. It may even still be there. She could try to go back and-

The image of the monstrous Witcher rose unbidden in her mind, with his frightening amber stare. No. She could not go back. Not while that beast might still lurk there.

With a long, low sigh, the woman dusted herself off. There was nothing else for it, the bag was lost to her, for now. A pang of regret in her chest, Berva sagged a little, before straightening and turning to walk away.

Behind her, in the market square, curious eyes looked off in the direction she had run, then down to the dirt, where an abandoned satchel lay. The towering man knelt down, scooping up the orphaned bag, before the Witcher known as Jaeger of Undvik stood again, returning to his business.


	2. Chapter 2

The streets of the city had grown quiet, the gloom of evening crawling through the alleys and roadways. Close to the market square, sitting at one end of the wide bridges that spanned the slow-flowing Yaruga, the tavern known as the Kingfisher bustled with activity, windows glowing with the warm light from within. Sounds of singing, laughter and dozens of conversations echoed from within. Occasionally, a heavily intoxicated patron would stagger out of the tavern's door and begin to wend their way home. Luckily, only two of the alehouse's clientele had fallen in the river so far this evening, eventually being fished out by grumbling guardsmen.

Inside, the alehouse was a hurried frenzy of activity. Dozens of mugs of ale passed across the bar, games of dice played out on the many tables, and a whole hog turned on a spit over a fire in the back, filling the air with the scent of sizzling fat and cooked meat. Throngs of clients pushed their way towards the small stage at the back of the tavern, eager to catch a glimpse of the performers on stage, two dancers from Ofier in the midst of the well-known Dance of the Shifting Sands. Cheers rose to the rafters as the duo reached the climax of their performance, the last of their many skirts torn free and thrown to the crowd.

Berva pushed her way through the throng, an empty mug in each hand. She sighed wearily, slamming the empty wooden tankards down on the bar and reaching up to push back the stubborn strands of hair that kept dangling down in front of her eyes. She turned to face the crowd, scanning the room quickly. These nights, when travelling performers would stop by in the Kingfisher to put on a show, were always the busiest for the young barmaid. Locals would emerge from the woodwork to see what the travellers had to offer. The innkeeper, a portly, middle-aged man known as Feynman, was all too happy to take the extra coin, even offering the singers, dancers and storytellers free food and board in the rooms upstairs as a trade-off for the increased business. But it always meant a long, harsh night for the girls that tended his establishment. Berva's rump was already bruised and raw from the myriad hands that had found it during the evening, the only clues to the hands' owners being low whistles or muttered suggestions that were quickly lost in the press of people. The barmaid shrugged it off. One of the many hazards of her occupation, and one she could do little about, if she wanted to keep the coin flowing into her pocket.

The dancers descended from the stage, making way for a gaudily dressed bard, clad in a bright outfit of red, green, purple and blue. From beneath his neatly groomed moustache, the bard offered a confident grin as he looked out at his audience. He raised his lute, beginning to strum out a cheerful little ditty.

"In Pontar's sapphire waters,

most cunning of creatures appears,

but none is just as swift as pike,

who strikes his prey with fear..."

The crowd settled, lowering their voices to listen to the minstrel's light-hearted tune. Berva allowed herself a smile, glad of the momentary reprieve the bard's singing gave her. Severin always managed to grab the attention of any crowd, skilfully holding them rapt for at least a few verses.

In the lull in the hubbub, Berva became aware of hushed voices, not far from the bar. Just past the main door, in the dark corner under the staircase that led up to the Kingfisher's guest rooms, three figures hunched over a table, talking in low tones. Normally, the barmaid would have paid it no heed, but her years of experience in the tavern had taught her to pick up on when people were trying to carry out clandestine business. Such business was usually worth a few coins, if mentioned to the right pair of ears. Berva sidled a little closer, tending to the sputtering candles on a nearby table. She observed the three men from the corner of her eye.

One was large, bigger than any other man in the tavern. Tattoos covered his forearms, nearly lost in the swarthy skin, darkened by decades under the sun. He may have been Nilfgaardian, or perhaps from even further south. Berva couldn't say for sure. Scars covered his arms, rope burns from years of travelling on the sea mixed with cuts from countless fights he had survived. A mercenary, most likely. The long knife stowed in the purple sash around his waist was dull from use.

The second of the trio was smaller, of average build. A shaved head gleamed in the candlelight, while narrow eyes looked about warily. Heavy copper rings banded his fingers, while an open sleeveless tunic hung loosely over his shoulders. Obviously not his, designed for a larger man.

The third of the trio made Berva feel uneasy. He was by far the smallest of the group, narrow shoulders hunched as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table before him. His face pulled forward into a narrow, almost rodent-like expression. When the candlelight flickered a certain way, his eyes gleamed just like the vicious rat Berva had pulled out of one of the sacks of grain in the back, just three days earlier. A knife danced between his hands, his fingertips testing the tip as he twisted it to reflect the firelight in strange patterns. He was the first one to speak.

"Lots o' foreigners today. 'Eard a whole caravan came in from Kovir."

"Koviri never have coin on 'em." The one with the rings sniffed derisively.

"Sure they do." Rat-face smirked. "You just gotta pick the right ones. I saw a nice, fat merchant among 'em. He had a gut on him like a Troll, and a coin purse to match."

"We should be careful." The tattooed one cautioned. "The richer they are, the more friends they have."

"So we make sure they don't talk to their friends, ever again." Rat-face sneered. "Remember what happened to that Ofieri bastard? He never spoke to anyone again."

"No more tongues." Rings grunted, a look of disgust on his face. "Better to kill them that do that again."

Berva's stomach churned at what they were saying. She knew of the criminal elements that clung to the underbelly of the city, leeches feeding off anyone weak enough to stumble into their clutches, but knowing that they were here, in her place of work, plotting to rob and murder unsuspecting innocents, the very thought stuck in her throat. She moved to step a little closer, eyeing some empty flagons on a nearby table.

The door swung open with a loud thud, drawing the gaze of more than a few patrons. On seeing who waited there, in the doorway, many let out a startled gasp. Berva looked up, her heart turning to ice as she saw the shape that filled the open door.

It was him again. The Witchman from earlier. His looming frame completely filled the open doorway, his eyes burning especially bright in the gloom outside. He hunched his shoulders, bowing his head a little to pass inside.

For a few seconds, the only sound in the tavern was the rasp of leather on leather as the armoured monster hunter walked past the slightly trembling Berva, not sparing the young barmaid a single glance as he walked towards the bar.

Up on stage, Severin began the next song in his set, unperturbed by the Witcher's arrival. As he did so, a few of the tavern's patrons rose from their seats, muttering under their breath as they left. More than a few disparaging insults could be heard being hissed at the stranger, nobody daring to raise their voice in a direct challenge.

"Mutant."

"Freak!"

Berva noted that the three men she'd been eavesdropping on were now much more uneasy, glancing at the towering warrior with concerned eyes. Finally, Rat-face gulped down the last of his ale, looking to his friends.

"C'mon. I'll not drink under the same roof as a fucking mutant."

His friends, without a word, rose to join him, the trio slipping out into the night.

The Witcher finally reached the bar, placing his gloved hands on the flat wood calmly. A few coins clinked as he set them down, nodding to Feynman. The innkeeper, ever the pragmatist, picked up the coins before pouring out a tankard for the hunter.

Berva felt a tremor start in her knees, rising up through the rest of her spine. Panic threatened to seize hold of her. What was he doing here? Had he come looking for her? She forced herself to keep her back to the Witcher, worried that he might spot and recognise her. She closed her eyes, praying to any deity who might listen that the monstrous creature would finish his drink and leave, before-

The sound of a chair grinding across floorboards echoed throughout the tavern. Berva looked to the source of the noise to see a young lad, one of old cooper's sons, rising to his feet, face full of disgust and drink. He shuffled over to the bar, his posture full of challenge. Thick, meaty fingers tapped the Witcher on his shoulder.

"Your kind ain't welcome here, freak." The boy's voice slurred with alcohol, the drink practically sitting over him like a dark cloud.

The Witchman sat still, looking straight ahead rather than regarding the nuisance to his side. This seemed to only further irk the drunkard.

"Oi!" He slapped the massive shoulder. "You hear me, mutie? We'll not have you spreading your filth under our roofs. Time for you to fuck off!"

Again, the Witcher remained silent, taking a long, slow swig from his ale. As he went to set the flagon down, the lout reached out with an unsteady hand, making to knock the drink over. Quick as a flash, a hand the size of a dinner plate caught his hand in a powerful, vice-like grip. The creak of straining fingers echoes out as the young lad's face turned pale from the pain.

"Don't do that." The voice was low, flat, calm.

"Let go!" The lad managed between grit teeth.

"Oi, get yer hands off'n Jerryn!" Another of the bar's patrons rose to his feet, aggression in his stance.

"Now, we don't want any trouble here." Feynman quickly interjected, eyes meeting the Witcher's pointedly.

The Witcher released the youngster's hand, turning back to his drink. The tavern released its collectively held breath, hoping that the moment had passed. Sadly, this was not to be the case.

The drunkard, Jerryn, flexed his aching fingers, looking down at them with the typical confused glare of one lost to his drink. He hesitated for a moment, before the foolishness of his liquor took over and, with a growl, he swung at the Witcher.

Berva would forever have a hard time describing what happened next. There was a flash of movement, followed by a pained cry from Jerryn, now flat on his back, then the tavern fell into chaos, a half dozen other drunkards rushing to the aid of their fallen friend. The Witcher, hands empty, had risen to his feet, turning to face the onrushing opponents. In seconds, the entire tavern had descended into chaos, a full-blown brawl breaking out.

The barmaid dropped to her knees as a stool, thrown by some careless lout, missed her head by mere inches, shattering against the wall. Fear grasping her, she began to crawl, dodging tramping feet and the occasional shattering bottle. Finally, she felt a gust of cool air, looking up to see the door in front of her. She quickly scurried out into the night, fleeing the tavern. Behind her, the Witchman faced the drunken rage of the bar's patrons, alone. A terrible roar tore loose from his chest as he threw himself into the brawl, the mighty noise echoing out into the night after the fleeing barmaid.


	3. Chapter 3

Berva's heart pounded in her chest, throwing itself against her ribcage in a wild effort to break free. Breath caught in her lungs, fiery, rough. Still she ran, eager to put as much distance as she could between herself and the brawl and, more importantly, between herself and the Witcher.

Finally, the young maid rounded a corner, ducking into an alleyway between two dark warehouses, slipping into the shadows that lurked there. She leaned against the wall of one building, gasping for breathe from her hurried but short flight. Her head slumped back against cold brickwork.

The slither of a knife escaping its sheathe was so quiet that Berva almost missed it. She looked around to see three darker shapes emerging from the shadows of the alleyway. Her heart turned to stone as she recognised the narrow features of the rat-faced man from the tavern, his two companions flanking him. As they emerged from the darkness, they moved to encircle her. Rat-face was the first to speak up.

"Well, well..." He drawled, a sinister grin crawling across his features. "A lost little dove. Run away from the big, bad Witchman, did you love?"

"She's got no coin on her, Rennar." The tall one with the tattoos said dismissively. "Its not worth our time."

"No coin, true." Rat-face allowed his eyes to wander, taking in the barmaid's full figure. "But she's got other valuables we can take- hey!"

His growled words turned abruptly into a shout of irritation as the girl, mind racing with terror, burst into a run, ducking past the man with the copper rings on his fingers. She plunged deeper into the alley, frantically seeking an escape. Behind her, the heavy tread of three sets of leather boots was close on her heels. Rat-face's laughing words echoes after her.

"Don't fly away, little dove!" He goaded. "We only want to show you a good time. I promise, you'll like it a lot better if you stop running!"

Berva, her mind a blank, turned down another alleyway, only for her stomach to turn to ice as she almost ran head-first into a tall wooden fence spanning the breadth of the alley, completely blocking her path. The wooden barricade was easily over seven feet tall, giving her no hope of leaping over it. Piles of trash lay at her feet, rotten grain and rancid fishbones gathering in small drifts that filled the air with the stench of decay. Nothing, not even a doorway or a window, offered the young woman a hope of escape. Her heart thundering in her breast, she turned to face her pursuers, now moving more slowly as they realised that their prey had nowhere to run. Rat-face, or Rennar as the others had called him, was once more the one to speak up.

"You shouldn't have run, little dove." His yellow teeth gnashed behind cruel lips. "Now, we're gonna have to clip those wings of yours, keep you from flying away again."

Berva backed away until her spine struck the wooden fence, stumbling as her feet slipped in the detritus of the alleyway. Tears of fear danced in the corners of her eyes as her lips trembled.

"Please..." She stammered.

"Quit yer yammerin'!" The second of the group, the one with the rings, snapped. "Ain't nuthin' makes my pole wither faster than a bitch's snivellin'."

"I can think of one way to get her to quiet down..." Rat-face leered, stepping forward, reaching down to his belt buckle. "We just gotta give that pretty little mouth somethin' else to do..."

At first, Berva thought she imagined it. A deeper, darker shadow looming behind the trio. It was easy to mistake it for just a deeper shade of the darkness, a trick of her eyes, not suited to the gloom. It was only when the eyes turned towards her that she realised it was no illusion. Two orbs, blazing like twin flames in the murk, revealed the huge figure, even as it moved silently behind the three thugs.

The towering shade moved faster than the young woman would have thought possible, swiftly drawing up behind the man with the rings. A hand the size of a dinner plate grabbed the man by the head and, with hardly any effort, threw him into the nearby wall, slamming his head into the damp brickwork again and again until, on the third strike, the skull split like an overripe fruit, glistering red flowing out to cover the enormous hand.

The other two men turned at the noise, starting as they saw what remained of their friend slump to the ground. The shadow turned his burning eyes towards the duo, the grisly remains of the dead man's skull still dripping from his gloved fingers.

The tattooed man was the first to attack, a fierce snarl ripping loose from his throat as he drew his long, dull knife. He lunged at the figure, attacking with a powerful overarm swing.

The figure moved faster than the eye could follow, catching the tattooed man's arm with his own forearm. As he did so, the shadow's free hand swung around, balling into a titanic fist. It swooped under the tattooed man's defences, finding soft, yielding flesh. There was a loud, sickening crunch as at least three ribs collapsed under the impact.

The tattooed man staggered back a few paces before he fell to his knees, wheezing wetly, blood rising in his throat with every breath. He couched, lumps of gleaming scarlet leaping from his lips to spatter the cobbles beneath him. He looked up as the mountainous shadow stepped forward, slowly emerging from the shadows.

The Witcher towered over the wheezing thug, his eyes burning with fearsome fire as he regarded his foe. A snarl tugged at his lips, teeth baring like some wild animal. With a growl, he reached down to his belt, drawing a weapon from its hook there, a small axe, head worn from use, haft covered in countless small nicks and scratches. The Witcher raised the weapon high above his head, and paused. His burning eyes turned towards Rat-face, gleaming with an unreadable light. He met the thug's eye for just a second, then brought the axe down.

The weapon screamed through the air, carving a silvery arc through the night. It connected with the tattooed man's skull with a wet crack, splitting the bone effortlessly. Berva imagined that the blow could have easily cut the man's entire body in half, had the gigantic warrior wished it. As it was, the axe halted its journey once it was wedged firmly in the man's head, splitting skull and brain in two. The Witcher let go of the weapon, allowing the corpse to topple to the side with a dull thud. A tide of blood and gore washed across the cobbles, clawing its way towards the feet of the last of the thugs.

Rat-face was now trembling, his courage deserting him. In front of him, the Witcher paced back and forth, shoulders heaving as some animal ferocity fought to break free from within him. His breathing was growing fast, his eyes still bright with hunger for battle. The thug, seeing no hope, finally managed to stammer a plea.

"Please... take all the coin I have, just don't hurt me!" Rat-face snivelled. For a moment, it looked like his legs would sag beneath him, all fight ready to desert him. The Witcher turned a scornful gaze on him.

"Pleading for your life?" He growled, his voice a deep rumble, like a storm on a distant mountaintop. "I should have known you had no spine. Pieces of shit like you are all the same. You disgust me!"

The Witcher continued pacing, forcing the thug to turn from side to side to keep the threat in front of himself. The beastly hunter continued to speak.

"Your lot are nothing but scum, the lowest of the low. You're no better than a Drowner, or a Nekker, and deserve to die like one!"

The threat of death must have triggered something in the thug's mind, some survival instinct driving him to act. In a sudden flash of motion, a knife appeared in his hand, drawn from its hiding place in the back of his waistband. Teeth bared like the rodents he so closely resembled, Rat-face leapt at the Witcher, showing surprising agility as he launched himself. He swung the knife with all of his might, a shrieking yell leaping from his throat.

Again, the Witcher moved with terrifying speed. The monster hunter caught the thug in mid-air, one hand wrapping around his throat while the other caught him by the wrist, stopping his knife mere inches from his feral yellow eye. The thug let out a startled gurgle as he hung there, suspended in the Witcher's grip. All was silent for a moment.

The snapping sound was loud, echoing back and forth in the alleyway to create a sickening cacophony. Berva felt a swell of nausea in her throat at the noise, almost as spine-chilling as the pained wail that followed it. The thug, still caught in the Witcher's grasp, stared at his now broken wrist, twisted in an unnatural way. The Witcher, with barely a grunt of effort, began to push the broken appendage, twisting it until the wickedly sharp knife now pointed back at its owner. Slowly, inexorably, the hand gripping the knife began to move, the blade's tip tracing a trail towards the rat-faced man's own eye. The thug released a quiet whimper, all he could muster past the gigantic hand clutching his throat.

"Please..." He stammered, even as his lips darkened, his cheeks reddening as he choked. "I don't... I can't..."

The Witcher grunted as, with a sudden twist, he drove the blade home, shoving it through the rat-faced man's eye. The blade plunged deep into the man's head, tip emerging from the back of his skull. The thug twitched in his grip for a few seconds longer, then went still.

The body dropped to the ground with a heavy thump, blood spurting from it to mingle with the trash of the alleyway. Berva stared at the corpse for a long moment, fear and revulsion wrestling for control of her. In the end, the revulsion won out, her stomach heaving. She hunched over, bile and half-digested food leaping from her throat. Her entire body convulsed, retching long after her stomach was completely empty. Finally, after her throat stopped heaving, she reached up with a shaking hand to wipe at her lips.

A shadow loomed over her. She looked up to see the towering figure of the Witcher. Her fear returned in a rushing tide as she lurched backwards, tripping over her own feet to land on the cobblestones, She scurried backwards, pushing her way through the trash until her back pressed against the wooden fence once more. The Witcher, without a word, held out one hand, palm outwards in a placating gesture that did nothing to calm the girl. The towering hunter sighed, dropping down into a crouch. He tried to meet her gaze, but she couldn't look at the amber eyes, couldn't meet the bestial stare.

Wordlessly, the hunter reached back to his belt, pulling something from his satchel. He held it out to her. It was her bag, the one she had lost in the marketplace. The embroidered roses glistened in the darkness. The Witcher held it out towards her, waiting patiently, but even so, the barmaid could not take it. She cowered back, her terror utterly controlling her.

Finally, with a long, low sigh of resignation, the Witcher tossed the bag at her, causing the woman to flinch as it landed in the dirt next to her feet. The towering man stood, turning his back to the woman he had just saved. He paused to pull his axe from the corpse of the tattooed man, then walked towards the mouth of the alleyway. He paused for a heartbeat at the alley's entrance, sparing a single glance back over his shoulder to growl two words.

"You're welcome."

With that, he turned, leaving the scene of carnage behind. In moments, the Witcher had vanished soundlessly into the night, leaving the terrified woman to regain her composure and, carefully picking her way through the grisly remains, slowly make her way home. In seconds, the alleyway was completely deserted, save for the three fresh corpses.

~o~0~o~

Jaeger stalked through the dark streets, face grim as his keen eyes scanned the city around him. His enhanced vision picked out every detail, from the glimmers of candlelight in upper windows of certain houses, to the scurrying rodents that ran from gutter to gutter. All the while, irksome thoughts tugged at his mind.

The Witcher should have been used to reactions like that of the woman. And yet... and yet it still bothered him. He'd saved her. And yet she could only regard him with abject terror and disgust? The girl's response to his aid ate away at him. Was it too much to expect even a little gratitude?

The Bear School Witcher sighed, turning a corner and finding himself before the Kingfisher once more. There, still tethered to the hitching post in front of the inn, his brown mare waited patiently for him, looking up at his approach. As the Witcher set about checking the saddlebags, he let out another sigh.

He'd been warned, of course. The Witchers were rarely welcome anywhere. To live their life was to live a life of exile, to be an outcast, a freak. He'd once had dreams of fighting fearsome monsters to earn renown, maybe gain fame and adoration from those he'd saved. And yet, the truth was much more disappointing. No matter the beasts he faced, the challenges he overcame, he was still the mutant, the outcast, the freak. The Witchman of Undvik.

Under the cover of darkness, a heavy weight sitting on his shoulders, the Witcher mounted his horse and, unseen by anyone, rode out of the city's gates and into the wilds.


End file.
